Flawed Perfection
by Starlit Skyline
Summary: Undertaker ponders the misdeeds of the four perfects of Weston College and the irony of the very word "perfect". manga-verse, set at the end of the public school arc.


Flawed Perfection

_Perfection, what a truly ridiculous concept,_ Undertaker thinks every so often. Ever since arriving at this college, he has dwelled in the shadows and crackled in the night. Perfect, the word that hangs in the air like a plague in this pristine institute.

Here they teach their students to be the _perfect _gentlemen, how to be the _perfect _nobles and intellectuals and sportsmen and artists. And, for all these students that are still learning the ways of society, there are four _perfect _people for them to look up to and idolize.

The four prefects – the embodiments of the perfection of their houses. _Perfection,_ Undertaker grins at their stupidity, _there is no thing like perfection._ And these four are the _perfect_ examples, with all their _im_perfections:

Lawrence Bluer. The prefect of Blue House, the Sapphire Owl – he is a genius, his intelligence is unrivaled and some even say he knows every book in the library word for word. His intelligence is unmatched, but his strength isn't. Despite being the smartest student that Weston Collage has to offer, he's also the weakest.

Herman Greenhill. The prefect of Green House, the Green Lion – he is a prodigy of fencing and cricket and most any gentlemanly sport. His physical strength is unrivaled, as is his anger – his anger that blinds and strengthens him and makes him forget all reason.

Edgar Redmond. The prefect of Scarlet House, the Scarlet Fox – he is of a noble, high standing family, well-bred and with impeccable manners. He is a refined individual, a prince almost and his understanding of poetry is better than even the professors'. But he is a spoiled child, a man who trusts too easily and expects too much.

Gregory Violet. The prefect of Violet House, the Violet Wolf – he is a divine artist, the paintings he presents and all the other visual forms of art he can create are magnificent and vivid and he is unique in his own right. His strange mannerisms have amused and slightly unsettled his fellow students, but his fellow perfects have grown used to his eccentricity – and he has grown use to them.

P4. Four kinds of perfection, each perfect in their own little way – yet flawed in almost every other.

After being found out by the little Phantomhive brat Undertaker doesn't flee the school. He hides on the school grounds, if only to see the four _former _perfects as they are forever banished from their paradise. He chuckles.

Their faces are sullen, heads bowed, but their posture is still regal. Like they're being led to the executioner's block, like it's under their pride to crumble in the face of judging, curious and suspicious eyes as they trudge over the school grounds and through the gate. The students would never know the truth about their sudden expulsion, but it matters little, they had already stained their hands, their reputation and that of their families.

Good intentions paved the road to Hell, after all. And really, they thought they were doing something good. They really, really did. But, unfortunately, it doesn't matter what they thought, only what they did – and what a grand fiasco they had made. A murder turned into a mysterious disappearance, as they hid each other's guilt and upheld the rules of Weston Collage. And that's all they really wanted, to uphold the rules, even if that meant they had to break them.

Undertaker crackles as he recalls the faces of their shocked fags. They had been friends, or brothers or whatever petty relation they had chosen to share – they looked sick, disgusted and disbelieving. It's common knowledge that many twisted, dark creatures lurk behind the façade of pristine white luster.

But really, P4 thought they were doing something good. They were loyal to their cause and loyal to each other. And really, they still thought themselves gentlemen and the refined, dutiful heads of their houses – and maybe that's what they were, in their own, twisted way.

Most people think it's tragic, Undertaker thinks it's funny. He's learned over the years, that irony has its own sense of humor – the one that makes you laugh even though all you want to do is cry. People don't appreciate irony, he does. He enjoys watching the little quirks of fate that lead to desperation and stupidity, conflict and blame and anger and a whole, unsolvable tangle of things that could have been better but weren't – because, really, mortals should have learned by now to let some things go.

He crackles and giggles and laughs and people call him crazy because of it. He doesn't care, most of them are miserable anyway. He never is.

Besides, wouldn't it be such a sad thing, if laughter disappeared?

He laughs when people cry. He laughs when worlds are crashing down, when the sky is burning and conflict destroys all in sight. It's ironic, and it's happened before – so he doesn't pay it much mind. Undertaker's gotten used to the pendulum of human greed that swings from war to peace, and he thinks that there's absolutely no point in crying over the young men that put their lives down for someone else's gain, or those who lose their lives in accidents, or murder or any other way that they can die - and there are many.

Undertaker might have felt something for a life cut short once, for the grieving, for families torn apart by an untimely death - but that was a long, long time ago. Crying won't save their lives, and it certainly won't fix anything.

Shinigami don't die, and it's rare that they even retire - he has, because in whatever world he couldn't be considered anything short of an anomaly.

Undertaker doesn't know where his empathy went, but if he had to hazard a guess, he'd say it was buried along with some unfortunate victim whose soul he'd collected. He doesn't need it anymore, anyway.

Irony is a cruel thing, the humor in tragedy, the cynical logic. And Undertaker loves it, because it's the one brand of laughter that never runs out. He lives in a gray world, full of death and suffering and he's grown so used to it that it's become funny.

Because really, they thought they were doing something good.

He giggles. Perfect, indeed, yet no one seems to notice just how flawed that word really is.


End file.
